


in every sense of the word

by justacitygirlbornandraisedinwhoops



Category: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain, Adventures of Tom Sawyer - Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Marriage, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:40:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justacitygirlbornandraisedinwhoops/pseuds/justacitygirlbornandraisedinwhoops
Summary: Don’t think about it, Tom tells himself. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.Of course, he thinks about it. He tries to convince himself he doesn’t want it so terribly by picking it apart with ruthless abandon, by shaving it down to what it really is: little more than tradition. Which is very unlike him, needless to say.But then, what’s the point of wanting something he can’t have? If he can’t have it, then he’ll hate it instead.
Relationships: Huckleberry Finn/Tom Sawyer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	in every sense of the word

Don’t think about it, Tom tells himself. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it.

Of course, he thinks about it. He tries to convince himself he doesn’t want it so terribly by picking it apart with ruthless abandon, by shaving it down to what it really is: little more than tradition. Which is very unlike him, needless to say.

But then, what’s the point of wanting something he can’t have? If he can’t have it, then he’ll hate it instead.

“It’s stupid, ain’t it?” he spits breathlessly one day as they’re carrying planks of wood out to the shed. They heave them over their shoulders and place them on the ground, and he claps the dirt from his blistering hands, wincing. “I mean, why’s a body got to get themself married to show anything? We don’t have to prove nothing to nobody.”

Huck wipes his own against his trousers and shrugs loosely. He offers a halfhearted smile and agrees, “No, we don’t.”

“There’s nobody we could prove nothing to anyway.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Ain’t nobody but a bunch of snobs come to weddings, too. Never been to one that wasn’t just packed full with ‘em.”

“If you say so, Tom.”

“…Huck, don’t you have anything else to say but that?”

“Well, I never been to a wedding before. Can’t say a whole lot about something I never been to, can I?”

Tom exhales a heavy sigh and scowls faintly at Huck, clearly unsatisfied with that response. He tugs at his collar and faces the ground to give his eyes a rest from the sun’s glare. He's been sweating buckets since they started. “Too hot to be doing this kinda stuff right now,” he mutters, and brushes away the hair that clings to his forehead. “Can we just go to the river for a little while?” Like he suddenly wants to escape from the very conversation he began.

“I reckon it’s a good time to take a break.”

They walk there hand-in-hand, and as far as Tom knows, Huck thinks very little of the exchange, much to his disappointment.

Huck doesn’t care about being married, not the way Tom always has. He doesn’t have to say it out loud, Tom just… _knows._ Maybe it makes him a little jealous. Maybe it makes him a little sad. He wishes he didn’t care so much.

The truth is that, of course, Tom can do without being a married man. After all, the two of them might as well be. Marriage is only a lifestyle they’re already living with a label they can’t claim. He has his life here with Huck, and that’s all he needs, and he’s never questioned that, not for a single moment since moving out.

He just has a hard time adjusting every now and then, is all.

He has a hard time especially when he thinks of how easily those who take it for granted can receive it only by asking. He wants Huck to tell him _it just ain’t fair, Tom,_ because he should know more than anyone else. A little girl like Huck’s mother can be badgered into marriage by a man like his father, just because, but she can’t escape it half as easily; living in fear that she’ll be beaten within an inch of her life isn't a good enough reason.

And here the two of them are.

They put everything at stake just so that they can wake up besides each other every morning. They take turns preparing dinner each night (incidents of overcooked meals grow less frequent as time goes on), and they slowly learn to cut one another’s hair to his liking (though Tom acquires the skill much more gradually, as Huck won’t let him take scissors to his head on a regular basis), and they occasionally bicker about who has a terrible habit of stealing the covers in his sleep (it’s Tom).

Truly, Tom can’t picture himself living any other way. And yet, in spite of everything, they haven’t earned what Pap Finn had, somehow.

He doesn’t have to guess. He knows this is why Huck doesn’t put much stock in labels such as “married” and “not married.” Unfortunately, that doesn’t make it any easier.

It's just not fair.

***

It goes needless to say that Tom has not been handling any of this well for the past week or so. Huck can be a bit slow at times, but anyone would have to be a complete and utter fool to fail to notice.

“I can help, you know,” sniffs Huck one day as they sit beneath the shade of an old tree in front of the house. It’s a little past noon, and Tom is hungry. But the clothes won’t wash themselves, will they?

“It’s my turn,” says Tom with grim finality.

“…You been awful quiet,” says Huck softly.

“Well, I’m in the middle of something,” Tom swiftly replies, and adds almost challengingly, “ain’t I?”

Huck pauses before conceding, “I suppose.”

Satisfied, Tom returns to the task at hand without hesitation, scrubbing one of Huck’s old shirts against a washboard in a bin of sudsy water. Of course, Huck is right to be wary of his silence, because Tom _is_ bothered. He’s bothered by many things right now, too many to mention aloud without feeling thin-skinned and uptight and just plain impossible, so with great difficulty, he instead decides to keep his mouth shut.

He doesn’t know why he even tries, though. He knows himself all too well to expect any less than to stew quietly in his own ire. He’s ashamed of how childish he’s acting, truly, but apparently not so ashamed that he’ll resolve to put an end to the behavior.

He’s scrubbing the shirt furiously by the end of this small, internal tantrum, so furiously that he scrapes his hand against the washboard. He draws away with a sharp hiss and clutches his hand. “Dammit…!”

“Lemme see,” sighs Huck, unfazed, as if he’s been reading Tom’s mind this entire time.

Tom remains facing the ground as he begrudgingly relinquishes his hand. “Just a scratch,” he mutters in a slightly sheepish voice.

Huck inspects the hand, and when he finds that there is indeed no more than a scratch, he releases it and looks up at Tom with chiding eyes. “What is it?”

Tom hesitates.

“Did I use one of your favorite shirts to stake the tomatoes or something?”

If Tom were in a better mood that allowed him some good humor, he might not have been able to stifle his laughter. But he isn’t. “No,” he feebly snaps.

Huck hums, raising an inquisitive brow. “Tom. What is it?”

More stubborn silence greets Huck in reply.

“You been bothered by something all day.”

Tom wilts with guilt, sour heat suffusing his cheeks. “Maybe,” he confesses sullenly.

“Reckoned so.”

“I ain’t even mad at _you_. You didn’t do nothing—”

“But you’re still mad.”

“Yes.”

“Well…why?”

Tom pauses for a brief moment, feeling a little stupid. Being dishonest never fixed anything; although unfortunately, there’s nothing that can be fixed about the cause of all his inner turmoil. His eyes aimlessly flit about like a startled bird in flight, as if they can’t decide exactly where to focus, only where they don’t want to, and that’s on Huck.

“Hey,” Huck gently urges. When Tom reluctantly raises his head, his gaze meets Huck’s, and any last trace of bullheadedness immediately vanishes. His eyes are brown and hazy and warm, so patient and kind and terribly inviting, and Tom is always pulled beneath their undertow so effortlessly.

“C’mon,” prompts Huck softly again.

Nothing chips away at his resistant pride as mercilessly as when Huck uses _that_ voice. Countless insignificant, trivial things Tom has struggled to communicate to him throughout the years with words alone, countless that have gone sailing clear over his head, but this…Huck knows this, of all things. And as strange as it always seemed, Tom needs him to. He supposes he can’t really blame him for using it to his advantage every now and then. There’s a small part of him that is mildly humiliated by this complete loss of control, and another that he’s not as accustomed to, that will gladly yield every time; that would give anything just to make Huck aware, because it’s difficult to say out loud.

Forfeiting this well-practiced shield of certainty in himself, certainty that he can’t be wrong for caring too much, that he doesn’t fret over little things that make him look like a fool, is no small task for him. Huck _must_ know that by now. And Tom would do it every time, if need be, for him.

He remembers then. This is why it’s all so unfair, why he’s so upset at everything and everybody.

He loves him, but few seem to think in the right way.

He suddenly feels so defenseless he can’t bear it.

“Things ain’t right,” he finally mutters, mouth chalky.

Huck’s brows crease faintly. “What?”

“It’s just—” His hands gesticulate weakly, trying to make sense of it all, before falling limp against his thighs in defeat. Struggling to find the words to say is a conflict Tom Sawyer is rarely dealt. “I wish we could do things everyone else does. You understand?”

With a deeply apologetic frown, Huck shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“…Why don’t you have anything good to say about getting married?” Tom accuses half heartedly, voice tinny, because he doesn’t know what else to do. _Why don’t you have anything at all to say about getting married?_

Huck’s eyes widen a small fraction, and his lips part. “Is that what this is about?”

Tom’s face screws up in frustration, but he quickly shakes it and directs his gaze out to the broad sweep of land that surrounds them. “Yes.”

Huck is silent at first, as if he doesn’t know exactly what to make of this response. But then, he doesn’t look all that surprised, either; like he’s had the sneaking suspicion, but wouldn’t dare to actually ask. He takes the hat from his head, places it down on a patch of grass, and wets his lips.

“But Tom…”

“I know, I know. No point in getting myself worked up about it—”

“Tom.”

“…What?”

“If you hadn’t asked me to tell you bad things about a wedding,” he chuckles softly, “I might have told you some good things.”

Tom furrows a brow. There’s a faint twinge of hope stirring in his chest, and he has to smother it before asking, “What does that mean?”

“What it means is, if you want something from me, you gotta tell me, Tom.” A sympathetic smile graces Huck’s lips as Tom’s face flushes in embarrassment. “And if…if marriage matters to you, then it matters to me.”

Tom clears his throat, and his eyes swim with dubious surprise. “You…ain’t just saying that for my sake…are you?”

“I’m saying it because it’s the truth.”

Tom stares at him for what feels like forever, speechless. His face must be as red as it feels right now. Heat rolls in waves up and down his spine. He thinks he can hear the blood thrumming in his veins. He’s not certain why this confession is making him feel the way it does when it doesn’t change a single thing. What does Huck simply feeling a certain way about marriage accomplish? Nothing. If Tom’s sentiments alone had actual power, their problem would have been solved ages ago.

But the reality is that they don’t.

He can’t help but remember a certain exchange that had taken place a little more than 10 years ago, between two little boys; one of whom vehemently protested the very thought of marriage.

_“Married!" cried Huck in disgust._

_"That's it,” answered Tom promptly. And he was certain that Becky Thatcher was the one he’d be married to. His mind floated between rich sequences of discovering hidden treasure with his closest comrade and visions of butter blond hair arranged neatly into two braids, watery blue eyes and frilly pink dresses._

_"Tom, you—why, you ain't in your right mind."_

_"Wait—you'll see."_

_"Well, that's the foolishest thing you could do,” Huck tried to dissuade with near-desperation. “Look at pap and my mother. Fight! Why, they used to fight all the time. I remember, mighty well."_

_"That ain't anything. The girl I'm going to marry won't fight."_

_"Tom, I reckon they're all alike. They'll all comb a body. Now you better think about this awhile. I tell you, you better. What's the name of the gal?"_

_"It ain't a gal at all—it's a girl."_

_"It's all the same, I reckon; some says gal, some says girl—both's right, like enough. Anyway, what's her name, Tom?"_

_"I'll tell you some time—not now."_

_"All right—that'll do…” Huck paused, far from satisfied, and allowed himself to confess in a thin, dismal voice, “Only if you get married, I'll be more lonesomer than ever."_

_"No, you won't,” Tom comforted, without hesitation. “You'll come and live with me.”_

They had been so small then. Huck had been wary of the world and everyone in it, and Tom had been naive. Now they’re older, taller, not tremendously wiser, but wise enough. They’re kinder to themselves, more trusting.

Tom wants to just look at Huck, the way he is now. So he does. Huck stares back, not shying away. There’s that same disheveled dark hair brushing past his shoulders, same chestnut eyes. Something different in them, though, that’s made them softer, warmer. Or maybe they haven’t changed at all. Maybe they’ve simply been left unguarded.

“You changed your mind, then,” Tom says in a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “What happened?”

“What happened…?” Huck repeats in mild confusion, and then recognition floods his face as the faint memories unmistakably submerge.

His cheeks turn pink suddenly, and he gives a small clear of the throat. “Saw nicer folks who was married. Like…Jim and his wife. Heard stories you told me about your mam and pap, stories Aunt Polly told you. I don’t know. I reckoned, maybe marriage weren’t my first concern when it came to you, because, well…you know.” He snorts and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “But it ain’t a bad thought, neither.” He becomes quiet again and purses his lips. “Not…Not when I think of it with you, leastways.”

Tom couldn’t suppress the urge to smother Huck in affection if he wanted to. And he most certainly doesn’t.

“Oh. Honey,” he sighs, disregarding the way Huck’s face grows even redder, if possible. He takes it in his hands and presses his lips to his warm cheek, then the corner of his lips. “Ain’t I just the luckiest man,” he laughs mildly, teasingly, and Huck squirms like a child being overbearingly coddled.

“I ain’t so sure about that,” Huck mutters, and Tom’s arms loosen around him slightly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asks Tom, and hopes Huck isn’t going to say what he suspects.

“Just wish I could give you more sometimes,” replies Huck, confirming Tom’s fears.

“Oh, Huck, don’t. Please. You know this ain’t your fault.”

“It don’t give me a hard time because I think it’s my fault. It gives me a hard time because I know it’s giving you one.”

“Well, I mean it’s…Well.” Tom turns his head away. “Things just ain’t fair, and I haven’t been dealing with it real well lately…”

The words sound a little more ridiculous out of his mouth than inside his head. Does he really have to say this to the man who told him not very many years prior, “ _I want this to work, but either you’re with me or you ain’t;_ ” who wouldn’t settle for any less than someone who would help him in his work, who cared about it deeply, not even when it came to Tom?

So, evidently, Tom is an abolitionist now, and Huck knows— _has_ known—just how unfair the world can be. Tom is a queer and an abolitionist and, well, the kind of company he’s kept most of his life wouldn’t be too happy about that.

But _he’s_ happy. If he and Huck are happy, together, isn’t that all that matters?

Tom pauses thoughtfully. He opens his mouth for a small moment before decidedly shutting it again. Without another word, he reaches out for Huck, takes his hand, runs his fingers over his callused knuckles. His hands have always been rough like this, since they were teenagers. Tom allows himself a small, bittersweet smile at the thought before releasing a small breath.

“Just because that thing in particular don’t bother you as much it does me, don’t mean people care when they make it so we can’t…have it. It’s all the same to them. That’s what gives me a hard time. That they can. So don’t you worry yourself none about it.” Once he completely empties himself with this admittance, reality presses down on him again just a little more insistently. But he still manages to smile, feeling Huck’s hand in his own, and continues, “Besides…I knew what I was getting myself into.” He chuckles beneath his breath, and it’s an honest laugh, maybe a little exhausted around the edges, but so genuine and warm and radiant all the same.

Tom can see it, Huck’s pensive eyes holding onto his face with attentive care, carving out each and every detail in suspense.

“And I don’t regret that. Never will.”

The words are spoken with such clarity, anyone would be forced to believe him. And he really, truly does mean them. He watches with satisfaction as the worried lines on Huck’s face recede, and any momentary doubt regarding his worthiness ebbs away.

He leans down and rests his head into the crook of Huck’s neck. Huck’s falls on top of his own. Their fingers remain woven together, and the bin of soaking laundry nearby is all but forgotten.

***

Tom wakes to the sensation of Huck’s lips pressing against his brow. He feels the covers get pulled over his shoulder, hears footsteps receding, and he stirs.

“…Hey,” Tom calls softly, groggily. Huck spins around to face him.

“Good morning.”

“It’s early. You, uh…” Noticing that Huck is dressed, Tom wipes his bleary eyes and props himself up on his elbow. “You going somewhere?”

Huck nods and leans against the doorway. “Just going to town to grab a couple things. Go back to sleep.”

“Right. Well, don’t forget to pick up some more coffee. And sugar, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Huck replies with a lopsided smile. “Be back soon. Okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” Tom mutters, satisfied. His head falls back onto the pillow, and his eyes quickly begin to drift shut. It doesn’t take very long for sleep to take him.

***

When Huck returns later after a rather unproductive morning at home, Tom can’t help but notice the lack of food—of coffee and sugar especially glaring—that he’s brought back with him.

As he attempts to toe past without a word, Tom stops him in his tracks.

“Well?” he asks expectantly.

“‘Well,’ what?” Huck parries innocently.

“Where’s the food?” Tom scoffs, eyes darting left and right in disbelief, as if he might have missed them upon Huck’s arrival—and he’s almost entirely certain he didn’t.

“Oh. I, uh, just left it out in the wagon to grab a little later. There was a lot to carry.”

Tom furrows a brow and turns to face the door. “Well, you can’t just _leave_ it out there. If you needed help bringing it inside you could’ve asked—”

“Hey, hey, wait,” Huck sputters with half-stifled urgency. His hand shoots out to grab Tom’s. “It can wait a moment. Just leave it, Tom. Alright?”

Tom pauses and narrows his eyes at Huck, trying to make out the bizarre expression on his face that appears to be some poor attempt at feigning innocence. If Tom wasn’t wildly suspicious before, he is now.

He straightens his back and folds his arms across his chest, wasting no time to accuse Huck, who’s looking guiltier and guiltier each second than the last. “You’re hiding something from me,” he states matter-of-factly.

Huck presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Just sugar and coffee. Like you wanted. And some other things.”

“Why can’t I go and see then?” asks Tom persistently, spinning around to walk towards the door, and Huck stops him, yet again.

“Because I’d really like you to make me lunch while I bring it in,” Huck blurts. The sentence sounds more like a last plea than a polite request, and Tom isn’t convinced in the slightest.

But, just to humor Huck, he nods slowly, very slowly. Seeing how thin Huck can stretch whatever act he’s putting on will probably prove to be amusing, if nothing else.

“Oh, I see. You want me to make you lunch, hm?” he echoes back, brows raised and head bobbing emphatically in agreement.

“Yes. Yes, I do,” Huck practically exhales. Since when had Huck become so dreadfully terrible at lying? Tom could have sworn Huck had lied himself clean out of quite a few predicaments in the past. Perhaps Huck is only terrible at keeping secrets from Tom. Lucky for him.

“Well, then. Go grab your things,” surrenders Tom with a theatrically loud sigh. The moment he turns his back, he hears Huck quickly barrel from the kitchen and out the front door.

When he returns, Tom holds his hand out towards Huck and gestures inwardly, expectantly. “Well?” he demands, still faithfully facing the wall.

“What…?!” Huck hisses impatiently, voice strained, and he has _definitely_ got to be carrying a heavy load. He’d probably hoped to skirt past Tom as quickly as possible and stow away whatever he was hiding, but Tom isn’t going to let him pass so easily.

“You wanted lunch,” answers Tom in a tone that suggests Huck should really know better than to not immediately cater to his every whim, whenever he may present it. “How am I supposed to make a sandwich without bread?”

Huck stumbles momentarily and curses beneath his breath. It takes every ounce of willpower within Tom’s body to hold back laughter.

“You can’t just use the bread in the pantry…?!”

“Course not, it’s stale. That’s why you gone to town, right? So, I need some bread.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Huck huffs breathlessly, and Tom couldn’t stifle his laughter if he wanted to. Huck hastily rushes to the next room, as hastily as possible while carefully balancing whatever is in his arms. He then wastes no time returning to the carriage outside to bring a loaf of bread in, wrapped in cloth.

“Here you go,” says Huck with sardonic pleasure as he places it in Tom’s hand.

Finally, Tom turns around, the smile on his face as broad and infuriating as ever. “Thank you,” he croons, and the glower on Huck’s face dissipates into a very begrudging smile.

“What’re you doing that to me for? Huh?”

“Making you lunch? Well, you deserve it. Buying who knows what and still remembering to go to the market.” As Huck hugs him closer, any last trace of frustration bleeds from his eyes. Tom grins knowingly and says, “You’re a mighty determined man today, I see.”

“I am,” admits Huck.

“What’s going on, then? Hm?”

“Can you do something for me, Tom?”

“Maybe.”

“Can you pretend you didn’t hear nothing that just happened?”

“Hear what?”

Huck’s eyes light up in a mixture of elation and relief. “Would it be too much to ask you for something else?”

“You’re pushing your luck a bit, don’t you think?”

“Can you just…make yourself busy until supper?”

Tom frowns in confusion.

“I mean, can you stay outta here for a little while?”

***

Tom knocks once on the door, and when he receives no reply, he knocks again.

“Huck…! Huck, c’mon! Are you almost done out there?”

“I just need a couple more minutes, I swear!”

Tom leans heavily against the door, arms folded stubbornly across his chest. “But there ain’t nothing left to do in here!”

“Well, like I said, you won’t have to wait but a minute longer.”

“This room’s starting to feel too damn small! And I can smell the food, and I’m hungry!”

“I’ll lead you somewhere else in the house, if’n that’s what you want. I’ll take you outside again. But you ain’t seeing what I’m fixing up, so if that’s what you have in mind, I’d forget it.”

“...Landsakes,” fumes Tom in defeat, and he supposes that’s that.

Maybe he wasn’t being entirely truthful when he said there was nothing left to occupy himself with in their bedroom. He hadn’t exhausted every single novel from his impressive collection, stored neatly on his bookshelf. In fact, he hadn’t done much more than skim a single one. It’s just that he doesn’t _feel_ like trying to read something that he knows would fail to catch his interest. All he’s interested in presently is whatever lies in wait for him on the other side of that door. He isn’t in the mood to have Huck lead him by the hand to some other equally boring room in their house, or outside, all the while having to swear up and down that he isn’t peeking, either. There’s only so much aimless pacing about that he can put up with before he begins to feel like he’s losing his sanity. He’s never coped well with boredom.

Perhaps he could stalk towards their bed and fling himself beneath the sheets, try to take a nap, or he could drape himself across the mattress like the poor, wounded sufferer that he is and noisily protest that his dying cries for help are falling on deaf ears. Either sounds good.

But he doesn’t need to contemplate his next course of action any longer, because, at last, Huck slowly opens their door a crack. Instantly, the mouthwatering scent of apple pie wafts inside. Apple pie is Tom’s absolute favorite.

“You ready to come out now?” asks Huck, smile gentle and maybe even a bit sheepish. He extends his hand towards Tom, who sits on the floor beside the door.

Tom’s gaze flits from Huck’s hand to his face, before he breaks out into a broad smile and takes it. “I been waiting long enough.” He rises to his feet and lets Huck lead him outside.

“Smells good,” Tom comments as they make their way down the short stretch of hallway. Huck releases a breath that he appeared to be holding and only nods curtly.

The first thing Tom notices isn’t the dining table, set beautifully with the nice china dishes Aunt Polly had passed down to him from his mother, or the delicious food prepared, or the glowing candles, or even the swath of lilies spilling over the brim of the vase decorating the center.

It’s the little wish bone hanging above by a thread of twine. Tom feels his breath catch in his throat.

Talk of hanging wishbones isn’t something he recalls discussing with Huck on more than one occasion.

_“What’d they hang up a blamed bone for?”_

_“It’s for good luck, saphead. Good luck for, well, their new life together. It’s just something married folks do.”_

_“Didn’t know your parents was the superstitious type, Tom.”_

_“It ain’t superstition, it’s tradition. Aunt Polly hates that sort of stuff, you know. She’d let my ma bust into flames before she let her do anything she thought was wicked at her wedding.”_

Tom lets out a small, trembling laugh and approaches the wishbone, reaching up and gingerly grasping it. He looks back at Huck questioningly, certain and uncertain all at once that he’s mistaken. “What is this, Huck?”

Huck shifts from one foot to the other and smiles crookedly. “It’s, uh, for good luck.”

Tom needs no further explanation. He stiffens in anticipation and spins around to face Huck again. Then he looks at the food on the table, the candles, the tin of pie resting on the stovetop, the flowers, and it’s in that moment that his surroundings grow less hazy and he understands them fully.

He’s unsure of what he should do next, if he can even do anything at all.

He simply looks at Huck, the shadow of a smile on his lips, fingers brushing against the soft tablecloth. He slowly walks forward until the distance between them is closed, and he latches onto Huck’s forearms.

“Huck…?”

Huck looks down at the floor bashfully. “Hm?”

Tom doesn’t respond. His forehead clumsily grazes against Huck’s, and he laughs softly. Huck smiles, and Tom doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve him. All this fuss over marriage he made…and despite the odds, Huck still managed, somehow. No matter what’s seen as sacred and what’s not; he wants to keep that humble little wishbone forever. He can feel his face heating up uncomfortably, knows that he might be brought to tears, but still, he leans in closer until his lips meet Huck’s.

When they break apart again, Tom is relieved to at least find Huck’s eyes appear glassy with unshed tears as well. He clears his throat quickly and attempts to blink them away, but it’s a lost cause.

“Thank you,” Tom murmurs, and steals another kiss, and another.

Huck coughs nervously, and it’s then that Tom realizes he’s digging around in his pocket for something.

“I, I realize this don’t change anything, but I know what it means to you, Tom. And to me, too.”

Huck worries away at his lip and raises his hand, and whatever he holds between his thumb and forefinger gleams faintly in the candlelight.

“You didn’t…Huck, you couldn’t have…”

“You don’t have to wear it all the time, or even often at all. You can just keep it put away somewhere, if you like. I don’t wanna risk looking suspicious at all, when we go to town, so, I reckoned, maybe—”

He’s silenced with more kissing, this even more tearful than the last.

“Huck…” Their noses brush again each other. Tom’s whispers are thin and frail, quivering through his teeth, and a cork springs loose inside of him, finally. He buries his face in his hands and curses faintly, undeniably embarrassed, but Huck’s gentle voice breaks him from his tear-soaked reverie.

“Go ahead and put it on,” Huck whispers kindly, patiently. “Before you lose it.” The expression on his face is difficult to describe, far too precious to express in words alone. It’s happy. It’s content. When Tom looks at it, he feels certain that Huck is allowing him to look at him from the outside in.

“This is just ridiculous—You blamed fool, I didn’t need this…!” In spite of any halfhearted protests, he slips it on without a moment’s hesitation. Who would he be if he didn’t adore drippy, grand gestures of romance? Which Huck knows all too well, clearly. It’s a simple, plain thing; not made from gold or encrusted with a single jewel, but so dear to Tom all the same. And how fitting that it is.

“I would have settled for…for just a lousy bone,” says Tom quietly, still reeling slightly from self-consciousness but meaning the words with his whole heart. A wet laugh falls from his lips.

“I know,” says Huck, and he wipes the corner of his eye. “It‘s okay, Tom.” He rubs Tom’s arm soothingly, and Tom sniffles, and smiles.

“Thank you.”

“I love you.”

Tom cants his chin and gazes into Huck’s eyes, unguarded and content.

“I love you, too. Thank you. Thank you.”

***

As they eat, Tom absently reaches over and plucks up a petal that’s fallen from a rose and onto the table. He feels it between his fingers, and Huck can’t help but watch a bit more attentively. Eventually, he pauses and lowers his fork to his plate.

“…Is that loose on your finger, there?” he asks abashedly.

Tom raises his head to meet gazes with Huck. He withdraws his hand and gives it a brief glance, smiling in acknowledgement. “It ain’t so bad. Just the smallest bit, I guess.”

“I reckoned,” laments Huck.

Tom’s smile widens and he cocks a questioning brow.

“Didn’t really…think the whole business through. The blacksmith, he asked me what size the ring ought to be, and I hadn’t a clue. I just—Well, I let him use my finger, and…”

Tom snorts and dissolves into shameless, endeared laughter, and hearing Huck sputter his defense makes any previous qualms Tom had about wanting for more seem distant.

**Author's Note:**

> felt reaaally...weird about the pacing in this one, and pretty dissatisfied overall, but i’ve been working on this one for months now and am too tired to look at it anymore ;P hope you guys will enjoy though!! kudos and comments especially are always appreciated!
> 
> (minimal research was done here, so excuse any historical inaccuracies, but i tried to scrape up some old marriage ceremony traditions from the 19th century!)


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